Demon
by brightsiren
Summary: A Circle mage turned Grey Warden meets an Antivan Crow turned partner. But while demons lurk in the Fade, so do they in dark pasts and stormy betrayals… M!Amell x Zevran, rated M for future events
1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first attempt at a Dragon Age fic, so feel free to point out my mistakes in lore, etc. This is mainly based on my playthrough, where I went for a diplomatic/accommodating personality. Dialogue may differ from the game's because I'm writing this at night without internet connection so I can't refer. :( But a plain retelling would be boring, right…? ;; Potential M!Amell/Zevran.**

**I combined the prologue with the first chapter since neither seemed long enough to stand alone... :(**

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

From the campsite, Daylen Amell watched the surface of Lake Calenhad ripple and waver, disrupting the still reflection of the Circle Tower. Even in destruction the building was a sight to behold – the arches chiseled from white stone framed the night sky in their black silhouettes, while the pointed turrets still glowed weakly in the darkness. He imagined First Enchanter Irving must be having a hard time cleaning up, even with most of the Fade demons back where they should be, for there were bound to be a few still roaming, unchecked.

"I'm guessing you wanted to stay and help."

The Grey Warden looked up at Alistair, and accepted the stone mug he was holding out to him. The contents of the mug were piss-yellow and smelled vile.

"It's ale. From the Spoiled Princess," added Alistair. "Tastes awful, but it's better than nothing."

"Thanks."

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing the senior mages can't handle." Alistair dropped down on the log beside his partner and took a swig from his own tankard, then wrinkled his nose comically. "I just don't understand. If the Chantry had been overrun by – say, fire-breathing nugs, I don't think I would have joined the fray like you did."

"The Circle was my home. It's all I ever knew, before I met Duncan. It just felt… right."

"Well, you just killed two birds with one stone, then. You saved your home, and that's one Treaty down."

"I guess."

Alistair frowned. "Well, we're heading for Redcliffe next, so turn in before Sten wakes up for his morning training, or whatever he calls it. The innkeeper said to leave the mugs on the front step. Good night."

"Good night."

Amell resumed gazing at the Tower. That had been one of the reasons he decided the party should camp by the lake rather than borrow rooms at the Spoiled Princess, despite having more than enough coin. None of the inn's windows overlooked Lake Calenhad at the right angle, or offered a view of the Tower quite like the one he saw now, sitting on a log in a clearing next to the inn, nothing obscuring the view other than the occasional night-bird flitting across the lake. And though he had told Wynne that he didn't mind paying for her room so she didn't have to rough it out, she seemed to share his unsaid sentiments and had politely declined. He had caught her staring at the Tower like this too, before she retired to her tent. That had been two hours ago.

The ale in his cup diminished as minutes turned into hours, but if he tasted anything unsavory his senses did not care. As hard as he tried he could not pull away, and when morning came Amell lead his party towards Redcliffe with heavy eyelids and an even heavier heart.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

When the young traveler woman approached him with fearful eyes Amell saw no reason to doubt her. She gestured in the direction of her caravan, which, he thought, probably had been overturned or maybe even set on fire by a band of darkspawn stragglers. For there was no way the band could have approached Redcliffe so soon after devastating Lothering. He gripped his staff tighter and briskly followed the distraught woman, who led them around the bend to a clearing.

"The Grey Warden dies here!"

An arrow sang past his face before he had time to blink.

"Andraste's arse, we're being ambushed!" Alistair cried, unsheathing his sword. Leliana readied her longbow and pinned down a helmeted attacker rushing towards her, dagger in each hand. Amell tossed fireballs at a row of archers, who had planted themselves strategically on a hill. They fell apart, armor beginning to soften and melt as they burned.

It was then that Amell noticed the elf. And noticed a second too late, at that. The elf had stuck him in the back with a dagger, tearing the fabric of his mage's robes and leaving a cut that burned and writhed like no flesh wound he had felt before. Gritting his teeth, he raised his staff and let loose a wave of magic that stopped the elf in his tracks, eyes rolling up to their whites. Amell swiveled quickly around and froze the attacker in place. The daggers the elf wielded hissed unpleasantly at their change of state, and in ice the green-tinged blades were all the more noticeable. A potent poison coating sheathed them like a scabbard, much like the one Leliana was fond of using when she had no choice but to go melee.

Panting, he put space between him and the attacker, and – making sure Alistair and the others were safely out of the way – brought forth a stream of fire from his palms, melting the ice and hopefully giving the enemy within a nice roasting. The trick worked and the elf dropped to the floor, weapons sliding out of his hands with no resistance. His skin was of a darker tint than a Fereldan's, but still failed to hide the fresh burns on his face, which would undoubtedly scar and ooze without proper healing. Amell tended to himself with a health poultice from the pack, too tired to cast anything further. The pain from the poisoned cut in his back started to dampen. He would ask Wynne to join the skin back later, for she was more adept at this sort of magic.

"He's their leader. I checked," Leliana pulled an arrow from a nearby corpse and slid it into her quiver.

"_How?_" asked Alistair disbelievingly.

"I asked this one." She nudged the dead man at her feet lightly with her boot. And true enough the corpse's right arm pointed towards the collapsed elf, a thing he must have done with his dying breath. "I was going to let him live a while longer, but he just… left."

"He knows we're Grey Wardens. I think it's best we ask him some questions," said Amell.

Alistair shrugged, but Wynne nodded in agreement and channeled a weak healing spell into the elf's ragged body. Leliana found a length of rope on one of the bodies and set to tying their victim's wrists together, while Amell took care of the ankles.

As the burns on the elf's face shrank and shallowed with Wynne's technique, Amell caught himself staring. On the elf's left cheek were two short lines, like curved blades, much darker in color than the coppery skin beneath. They traced the angle of his prominent cheekbones, which gave him a handsome, chiseled look that did not exactly fit his elvish stature. Longish blonde hair, much lighter than Alistair's corn-colored shade, fell around the elf's shoulders. A thin lock on either side of his head above the ears had been braided and fastened at the back of the head, a ropelike crown.

"He's beautiful," Leliana murmured.

"Don't get too attached. We _are _killing him, aren't we?" Alistair sighed.

"We don't know for sure…"

"Yeah, and what does our leader say to that?"

"I'm… not sure," said Amell, after some consideration.

"Maker! Not you too!" Alistair slapped a gauntleted hand to his forehead. "This elf tried to kill you, you know."

"For once, I have to agree with Alistair," said Wynne. "With Loghain still calling for your heads I think letting this elf go symbolizes a huge risk."

"_Thank you! _… I think."

"I'll decide when I hear what he has to say."

As if on cue, the elf began to stir. Alistair readied his sword, despite the elf's incapacitation and a glare from Leliana.

A groan escaped their victim's mouth. "Where am I?" He blinked in the sunlight, and attempted to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but realized that his hands were bound tight behind his back.

"You're captured. We need to ask you a few questions," Amell began, looking down at their culprit.

"Don't try anything," muttered Alistair.

"I see… I should have expected this," the elf chuckled, his weak voice gaining traction. The laugh was melodious, and coupled with the exotic accent with which he spoke, made him seem all the more mysterious and enchanting. "My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends. I'm part of the Antivan Crows, and someone told me to assassinate two Grey Wardens. The two of you, I take it," his eyes traveled from Amell, and then to Alistair. "Exactly as the client described – a handsome mage and an, ah, angry warrior."

Amell looked taken aback; Alistair's eyes narrowed. Evidently he enjoyed making jokes more than being the butt of them. Leliana giggled.

Ignoring the elf's earlier comment, Amell continued. "What are the Antivan Crows?"

"You don't know? Well who would have thought –" Zevran seemed surprised, but Leliana interrupted him mid-sentence, the corners of her lips curling.

"Save your breath, Zevran. I'll tell him what he needs to know."

"You're calling him _by name_ now?"

"Oh, shush, Alistair."

The redhead launched into a vivid description of what she knew, the elf nodding in agreement periodically, unabashed by his vulnerable position. A vague impression of such information surfaced in Amell; he decided he had probably heard of the Crows during one of his Circle lessons. Whatever else he had learned now seemed distant and unhelpful. A small part of him remembered enjoying and anticipating the classes he shared with Jowan. Jowan, who had been his one true friend in that lonely place.

"So the Antivan Crows are a group of elite assassins?" Amell went over Leliana's explanation again in his head, still unsure of what to make of it.

"That is correct, though evidently we are not elite enough," mused the elf. "The Wardens are not dead, and I have failed my mission… Perhaps that should be the least of my worries." Contrary to his words Zevran did not look the least bit worried; he carried himself with a demeanor that was almost smug, entirely unfitting for a prisoner backed into a corner.

"Who sent you?" Amell pressed on.

"A man named Loghain. He seemed to be of a high position. But I do not care much for the politics of this country."

"Loghain! I should have known!" Alistair flung his hands up in the air.

"Careful, Warden. I've never heard of assassins giving away the identity of their employer so… willingly," said Wynne, folding her arms.

"Now now, torture is messy business. All I've done is saved you the hassle – how do you say it here – 'the end justifies the means'?"

The older mage stiffened. "That's not quite right, and I'm still not inclined to believe you."

"Whatever you say, ser mage," Zevran shrugged as best as he could in his position. "I entered a contract saying I would… dispatch these two Wardens, nothing else. I could go screaming the names of my clients from the peaks of the Frostback Mountains, if I desired such."

"Oh, he's funny!" Leliana gushed, and the elf did a little bow using his head in a dapper fashion one would normally associate with tipping a hat.

"Don't encourage him!" said the other Grey Warden exasperatedly.

"Say, since you've already kept me alive for this long, I have a proposal to make," purred the assassin, now making eye contact with Amell alone.

Fragments of Circle training flowed back into his mind with that one sentence. After all, demons could and would say such words in the Fade, pulling you in with flowery, convincing words or their enchanting appearance. Privately Amell felt that it was more of the latter, in this situation. He forced himself to meet the elf's intense gaze and spoke.

"Why should I listen to you? You tried to kill me!"

"Don't take things personally, Warden. This whole killing business is merely a business venture, which my failure to kill you has annulled," the elf explained rather matter-of-factly. "Even if you let me go free, I hardly dare show up on my client's doorstep without your head in a nice box. And your Grey Warden friend's too." Alistair flinched.

Amell ignored him. "So you're saying I should kill you?"

"No, no, not that. You would gain nothing from doing so –"

"I'd rather gain nothing and lose a threat," muttered Alistair.

"—My good man, I would appreciate it if you stopped interrupting me. I, too, like the sound of my own voice very much, yet unlike you I refrain from displaying masturbatory tendencies–" If anything, the elf looked more amused than irritated.

The blonde Grey Warden made to retaliate, but Wynne knocked him lightly on the head with her staff, eliciting a howl of pain.

"Stop bickering!" she sighed. "As much as I am apprehensive to this idea, I think we should see what this… Zevran has to say for himself." Alistair shot her a look as if to say, "Not you too!" and slunk behind Amell, now pointedly ignoring anything to do with the elf on the floor.

"Thank you, kind lady," Zevran purred. "May I proceed?" he turned to Amell.

"Go ahead."

"Allow me to travel with you, as a member of your party," he grinned, and Amell noticed that his eyes were shining. The overall effect was dashing.

"What? Why would I do that?" he tried his best to remain unfazed and folded his arms across his chest. Alistair looked on the brink of chipping in, but Wynne shot him a black glance. Even Leliana appeared surprised, to some degree, though the faint blush on her cheeks suggested that she had also fallen victim to the elf's charm.

"I am an Antivan Crow, trained in combat, stealth and deceit. Surely you could find use for me? As far as I can tell, you have but one melee fighter," his eyes rested on Alistair, who looked resentful. "and an incompetent one, at that. Adding me to the ranks would make you significantly more formidable."

"We have Sten back at the camp!" hissed Alistair, not enjoying being exploited. "And in case you've forgotten, Leliana's a pretty decent blade!"

"Thank you!" said the archer cheerily.

"Not denying your incompetence, then?" Zevran smirked, and Alistair looked fit to explode. "Well, Warden? It's your call."

Amell tried to weigh the pros and cons of the arrangement in his head, but something about the elf's smoky voice and confident demeanor made any attempts at a fair comparison trying. _What if he was assassinated in the night?_ But would seeing this elf's face twisted into a cruel smile as he drew his last breath really be such a bad thing? Thoughts like this swamped him, and in the end he let intuition – or perhaps stupidity – take over.

"Fine. We could use you."

As Leliana cut Zevran free from his bindings Amell could not shake the feeling that had they been in the Fade, he would have most certainly just made a pact with a demon.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I had to go back and fix some embarrassing mistakes I made in the first chapter (including the misconception that health poultices can be drunk). ; Hopefully no one saw that. This chapter is pretty uneventful, I'll try to make things more interesting here on out :') If you see any glaring flaws, in lore or in writing, please inform me. I might also be changing the title of the story... "Demon" was just something I came up with on the fly and it sounds pretty lame! D: Suggestions?**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

The five-person party trudged back to the camp in general silence as the temperature dipped and the sky began to purple. They had set up their tents an hour or so away from where the confrontation had occurred, a good three-hour walk from Redcliffe. Amell had planned to pack up and go after gathering supplies from a nearby village – Bodahn and Sandal were out of stock – but the ambush had made that impossible.

As the group marched Amell kept his eyes on the elf, and he was sure his other partners were doing the same, aside from Leliana, who was at the head of the group in front of Zevran. From what he knew of him the elf was probably well aware of their doubt, but did not appear uncomfortable in the least. He even walked with a slight spring in his step; Alistair would call this "swaggering". Two daggers glistened in the remaining daylight, one long and slightly curved, the other shorter but with an intricate design on the grip. What poison remained on the blades had dried like a thin transparent crust which was sure to take ages to clean off.

They had confiscated Zevran's pack and examined the contents. There was a written document testifying the hire of an assassin, though it was mostly illegible due to, as they soon found out, a poison flask having broken during the fray. Wynne had gingerly cleaned the pack with magic and found inside several other vials of poison, some labeled in Antivan while others were marked only with ominous symbols. There was nothing else they could find of use and they returned the pack, albeit without the poisons, which Amell kept. He would not appreciate being slayed by a lethal evening meal, of all things.

When they arrived in the clearing night had already blanketed the country. Sten was sitting at the campfire and did not seem particularly interested in the approaching party. Morrigan was even farther away at her corner of the camp, which had its own campfire. Amell sent Leliana to coax her over while they gathered at the main campfire. Dog bounded up to him the minute he stepped foot into the camp, pawing playfully at his boots.

"This is Zevran. He's going to be joining us from now on. Zevran, this is Sten, and she's Morrigan."

"So the Warden has not two but _three_ beautiful ladies in tow? Charmed to meet you," the elf's eyes twinkled as he spoke. Morrigan seemed unimpressed.

"Hm. I'm not sure what to make of him."

"There's one more thing," said Amell, sighing. No use hiding the fact from the rest of them, even if they were the three least likely to object to the situation. "He's – he was – an assassin sent to kill me by Loghain."

Sten grunted in reply and continued glaring at the fire.

"I take it he hasn't finished the job?" Morrigan raised an eyebrow. "If I were you I'd keep a closer eye on my food and drink."

"My lady, I am no longer obligated to kill this man and his golden-haired friend, so you need not worry."

"Worry?" she scoffed. "Indeed, you need not worry about me worrying. May I leave now?"

"I suppose," said Amell, not knowing what else to add. Zevran merely looked amused – as he always did – and followed Morrigan's shapely figure with his eyes as she traipsed back to her section of camp.

"Well that went… smoothly," said Alistair, puzzled.

"Of course it did, Alistair," Zevran said bemusedly. "Who can refuse me?"

xXxXx

Amell poked the campfire with the non-casting end of his staff. Wynne often berated him for doing so, for the flames left black marks as they licked the metal, but she had long since gone to bed in her tent. Even Sten had grown heavy-lidded and left his usual spot beside the fire.

He no longer enjoyed the sleep he had once voraciously desired when still schooling at the Circle, where classes would start at ungodly hours and go on till the sky changed from dawn-pink to dusk-purple. And then there was the homework, which always set him back a few wax candles. Then he would stumble off to bed, eyes stinging from the work, for three or four hours before the morning bell was sounded and he had to clamber out of his nest of sheets and blankets.

Now things were different. He'd had his first dreams as a Grey Warden the night after they left Lothering, which made him writhe and toss in his tent. Alistair had noticed quickly and tried to reassure him that blocking them out would prove easier as he accumulated experience, yet in his dreams he continued believing that he was being swarmed by the darkspawn army in an underground fortress, rather than a spectator of a faraway, if disturbing, scene.

On nights when the archdemon did not assail him, there were the Fade dreams he'd been having since he was eight. Demons would beckon to him in a flickering darkness, claiming to be benevolent spirits or powerful Old Gods trapped, promising riches and power. He had never really been enticed by their empty words before, not even when he was a child, but waking up from these dreams had never left him especially cheerful.

Laying down also made his body ache. He had never fought like this, or taken as many blows, or walked this far outside the Circle, and he had never imagined that he would. But the constant throbbing of his hamstrings as he struggled himself to sleep only reinforced the fact that he was living a new life, now.

"Why the long face, Warden?"

He nearly fell off the log he sat on, so deep in thought he had been.

"N-Nothing."

"People do not frown at their campfires for no reason," laughed the elf, planting himself next to Amell. "Especially when the fire in question has done absolutely nothing wrong!"

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" he ventured, hastily changing the subject.

"I thought now would be a good time to do a little guard duty, especially since your dog over there seems to be doing a terrible job."

Dog lay on the floor, head between his front paws, the only indication that he was alive being the rise and fall of his chest. Amell made a mental note to punish the beast in the morning; he had instructed Dog to watch Zevran's tent, specifically, and bark if the elf did anything out of the ordinary.

"No need. I'm doing it. You should catch some sleep, we've got a long day ahead of us."

"I dozed when I was knocked out," he rubbed his wrists, where marks still remained from where they had bound him. Amell looked away, feeling a little guilty. "What about you? It is a wonder how you have failed to collapse in battle yet. Your eyebags are very telling."

He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "You're very observant."

"I was trained to be. Antivan Crows have a reputation to uphold, no?" said Zevran, proudly. "Bad dreams, I take it?"

"How did you know?" Amell asked, eyes widening.

"There have been many apostate mages in the Crows, and I have been on missions with some. I remember one girl who would wake up in the middle of the night screaming," the elf chuckled. "I ran out of my tent, daggers ready, fearing we might be under attack! But no such luck."

"What did she scream?"

"What did she scream? Just one word. 'No.'"

"She probably met a Fade demon who was trying to make a bargain with her... I suppose it shows that she's not one for blood magic."

"A pity. She might have survived her next mission if she had been."

Amell frowned. "Don't joke about blood magic – it's evil –" He stopped.

He remembered Jowan, dark blood flowing out of the deep cut in his right palm, spiraling in front of him like a red ribbon fluttering in the air. His eyes began to glow faintly in the dim light of the circle and he raised a commanding hand. And then the apparition – a great demon swathed in murky colors that flickered as it slipped back and forth from the Fade, letting loose a laugh so hollow and deep that it felt as if it came from deep underground. Then they were flying through the air, him and First Enchanter Irving, the templars, Lily…

"It appears to be a taboo subject for mages," Zevran noted. "You must have known one, then. A blood mage. Or… maleficar, is that what you call it?" He rolled the word around on his tongue, evidently finding the term an interesting one, in the Fereldan tongue.

Amell blinked and made eye contact with the elf properly for the first time since they started talking. "How did—"

"Just a hunch," Zevran grinned. Amell quickly straightened his face. "I am a very accurate 'huncher', if I say so myself. Another one: you are in love with your blood mage friend." The Grey Warden gave him another look of extreme confusion, now mixed with slight embarrassment and indignancy. He retaliated with a smirk and explained, "The Crows are trained to read faces. Far more important than reading maps, as far as I know. Your expression tells all."

Amell did not reply.

"Not convinced? Distant eyes, a set jaw, knuckles clenched – yet you do not appear angry or vengeful, in fact you look almost sad—"

"Maker! He was a man! He was just a friend."

Zevran went so far as to fall off his end of the log in mirth. "You Fereldan people!" He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and seated himself properly. "In Antiva, people do have preferences, but no one cares so much. I've had my fair share of male lovers. Funny, they always end up dead…"

Amell had already slipped back into a moody silence.

"Is your blood mage 'friend' dead, then? You speak of him as if he is."

"I don't know. He might as well be. He escaped from the Circle," said Amell, sighing. "And I helped him. Maker…"

"There there. He's no longer your problem. You're a Grey Warden! You'll find someone new. It's simple." He said this casually, lightly, like the words carried no weight.

The Warden wondered if a less patient man – Alistair, or Sten – would have already started entertaining thoughts about strangling the elf. But being a fairly tolerant person he only felt tired.

Zevran continued to rattle on like a whistling kettle, now describing one of his past romantic exploits at great length and with unnecessary detail. Amell humored him by nodding periodically but did not register what was being said. To think that he'd now be listening to a saucy sex story told by an Antivan assassin who, twelve hours earlier, had been bent on sending his head back to Loghain in a crate.

Instead he focused his attention on the way the elf spoke, rather than what was being said. His accent drizzled his words smoothly when he spoke, though he faltered occasionally with odd expressions, probably directly translated from his Antivan mother tongue. A stray blonde lock had escaped from his thin braid and now kissed the left side of his face, above the strange tattoo markings. As he told his tale, his head occasionally cocked itself to the side, like an animal detecting a strange noise from far away. The whole effect was strangely attractive, or maybe it was just the light from the flames dancing on his copper-colored skin…

"— so, of course, I had to flee the village. You are not listening, but I will pretend that you have been."

"I'm sorry."

"Anyway," he continued, not visibly affected by Amell's lack of attention, "my point is, you cannot mope about a lost love forever!"

"It's not love."

"Have it your way."

"… I still don't understand how your story makes your point."

"Ah, actually, it doesn't. I was just looking for an excuse to tell an entertaining anecdote."

"So it's true?"

"Of course it is true!"

"Even… that bit in the tavern?"

"Oh, _especially_ that bit in the tavern!" Zevran gave Amell a devilish smile. "And you _were_ listening after all, I see."

_No, not really_. Truth be told, that part only made an impact on him because (according to Zevran) it had, apparently, involved an exploit with a rogue mage… and his staff. He desperately tried to clear the image from his memory.

"A-Anyway," he began, deliberately looking at the fire instead of the elf. "you should return to your tent. I said I'd keep watch out here."

"Too late," replied Zevran, standing up. "It is already morning."

Amell looked up. He hadn't noticed how long they'd been talking for. But the elf was right: the deep blues of the night sky had already begun to thin; the few stars that were out had become less remarkable against their lightening backdrop. And the elf looked infinitely more beautiful in the growing light than he did in the flickering darkness, lit only by the sputtering campfire.


End file.
